


Days

by lasergirl



Category: Once Upon a Time in Mexico (2003)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-02
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2017-10-08 15:51:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/77273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lasergirl/pseuds/lasergirl





	1. Chapter 1

_**OUATIM: Days 1/6**_  
**Title:** Days  
**Fandom:** _OUATIM_  
**Pairing:** Sands/El  
**Rating:** NC-17

  


**Chapter 1 - Keep Me Cool**

_=Hold me tight, keep me cool Going mad, don't know what to do=_

Sands wasn't certain if he was awake or if the whole damn thing was a horrible hung-over hallucination. There were cockroaches crawling over his naked body, chewing on his fingertips and congregating in the blood pools on his face.

The air was full of dust and it choked him. A desert of dry sand poured down his throat. In his face was either the burning, blinding white of the midday sun or the hot, silent, choking, stinking blackness of deadest night.

So was he dead? The burning of his strung-out nerves seemed to indicate he was. But the heat. was he being slowly roasted alive? In a coffin? The smothering blackness was suffocating.

Sheldon Sands jerked abruptly awake, gasping for air.

"Sweet Jesus, what the hell is going on?" His words were blurred and groggy and he lacked the strength to raise his head. He couldn't shake the horrible blackness.

.and then the reality rushed in on him again. He remembered the tiny sound the needle made when it punctured the skin of his neck. He had been held down, forced to watch the nightmarish surgical tool descending onto his naked face.. heard the wet sounds of his own fluids dripping to the floor. did not hear his own screams because they were so far back in this throat he was choking on them.. the low, gentle mocking laugh of Ajedrez, taking her rightful place at her father's side..

"Dog shit," he muttered, "I'm not dead, am I?"

It wasn't likely there was anyone around to hear him, but he said it anyway. But then he revised his perception of the situation, and that was only because he could hear someone breathing nearby.

"[Dead is such a relative term,]" said a soft voice. Spanish, of course. Mexican. By the timbre and echo, Sands caught a fleeting impression of the room he was in; plastered walls, probably a low, exposed ceiling. And the man who spoke was seated directly across the room from Sands and probably had a gun trained at his crotch.

"Doesn't anyone in this shithole speak ENGLISH?" Sands groaned, writhing on his back like a sounded snake, "It's like some goddamn Sesame Street sequence. Uno, dos, tres. Habla Ingles?" His head was spinning and his battered body ached, but slowly the pieces were falling together. He grabbed a handful of thin, cheap cotton sheets in one fist. Someone had put him into, good lord, a bed, of all things. He would have expected a garbage heap with rats, a hard bench in some backalley boozecan, hell, even a cut- rate clinic run by cokeheads, but not this. "Mi grupo sanguíneo es O. And I need a drink."

"[You'll need more than a drink,]" the man said, and Sands heard him rise from the chair and cross the small room. The jingling of the chains gave him away immediately.

"Good God, El? Tell me you're going to shoot me now, okay, and put me out of this misery?" Even Sands thought his own voice sounded cracked, pathetic. The whining of an emasculated man in the dark. "Do you have a gun?"

"[Yes. Would I let you have it? No.]" The Mariachi sounded almost amused.

"Goddammit, man, then that's no good to me! We must have ammunition! Fireworks! It's my funeral, after all."

"[Take these and stop talking.]" The Mariachi took Sands' hand and dropped some capsules into his palm. Sands scooped them into his dry mouth and the Mariachi held a tepid glass of water to his lips. "[We have to travel soon and you're going to need them.]"

"I wasn't planning on going anywhere." Then it crossed Sands' fractured mind that he probably should have asked what the capsules contained. Any agent in his right mind would never take what was offered. Not even blindly. Oh, the irony of it all!

"[Well, we have other plans.]"

"So what's this 'we' business?" Sands asked. He could feel the leaden heaviness crawling out from his belly already. These weren't even painkillers, they were probably some pure opiate, and in that case he was going to have one hell of a nod. And then they'd get back to business. And Sands would probably kill the bastard for saving his life.  


Questions? Comments? Feedback always appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

=Do I need a friend? Well, I need one now.=

Sands woke in a new town. Rather, he regained consciousness in a different small room, in a different hard, cheap bed that he deduced was in a new town. The air smelled different here. It was cleaner, fresher, hardly any bitter tang of carbon monoxide or gasoline fumes. Somewhere he swore there was a breath or two of salt from the ocean. Sands had a headache like an isopropyl hangover, but even his damaged senses could tell he was somewhere else.

He jerked one hand to his face and it was covered in stiff bandages. His arm and leg were burning, under something tight that also felt like bandages.

"I got my eyes pulled out in Mexico and all I got was a trip to Buttfuck, nowhere," he wailed. "What the fuck is going on?"

"[You're feeling better, I see.]" The Mariachi was there, of course. Because where else should he be? Really, didn't he have anything better to do than this? This. whatever this was? Babysitting a raving lunatic. Well, he should have gotten some rope, because by all rights Sands should be tied down, or locked up, or. something.

"You rotten scumbag, you shanghaied me." Sands rolled over and managed to get himself up to elbows and knees. "When I'm finished pulling out all your teeth with rusty pliers, I'm going to make you eat them and give me a blowjob."

"[Is that any way to talk? You needed medical attention so I found you a doctor.]" The Mariachi sounded fatigued and his voice hoarse. But he came over to where Sands was struggling in the thin blanket and took his arm. At the touch, Sands hissed through his teeth.

"Who did you take me to, Joseph Mengele?" Sands shook him off.

"[This coming from a man who murders a cook because his food is too good? Take these.]" Again, the ceremonial passing of the capsules from hand to hot palm. Sands slumped onto his belly and sniffed at the pills. They smelled of glycerine and dust. Nothing more.

"But I'll stay conscious, right?" He asked the Mariachi. The man gave no response but tapped the pills in Sands' palm. He put out his tongue and let the capsules stick to it. Another glass of water was offered to him, and he drank.

"This better be bottled water," he complained, "I don't want parasites or tapeworms or any of those lovely third-world infections."

"[Ay]" the Mariachi sighed. "[You are such a tourist sometimes.]"

The exertion of raising his own body those few inches off the bed had sapped Sands of whatever vicious energy motivated him. He pushed his face into the flat pillow, feeling the faint pressure of the packed bandages against the empty sockets of his eyes. What a weird notion. He'd just gained two new orifices to play with...

He lay there for a few minutes until he realized the Mariachi was watching him. He ignored the crawling sensation up his spine, a nervous reaction genetically programmed by millions of years of human evolution. He was not afraid of the dark.

At least the panic was lessened now that he knew who his opponent was; and that was how he viewed the Mariachi. He knew the man could be trusted only as far as he could be thrown. In Sands' weakened state, well, he didn't want to think about how far anyone could be trusted.

After a while the Mariachi pulled the blanket back up over Sands' shoulders and clinked back to his vulture's post in some recessed corner of the room. Raw nerves shuddered at the sharp click of metal against metal, but after a moment there came the reverberating tap of a palm on hollow wood, and Sands realized that Mariachi had not drawn a gun, but a guitar. Of course, the man was a musician first, he always had been. Killing, though he excelled at the job, was not for anything but an emergency. Perhaps he could be trusted after all.

When the Mariachi began to play, Sands tried to hate him. He conjured up all the awful things the Mariachi could have done -- things Sands had done himself - kicking dogs in the street, chasing down elderly pedestrians behind the wheel of a shitbox car, stealing candybars and murdering innocent cooks in tiny restaurants. But dammit, even he knew the Mariachi's soul was purer than his.

"Why the hell are you putting up with me?" Sands muttered, raising his bandaged face from the pillow. "I'm the bad guy, don't you remember that?"

"[It's the least I can do.]" There was a shrug in the Mariachi's voice and he paused over the phrase he was fingering on the guitar.

"Kill me?" It was less a genuine question than Sands intended. It came out halfway; a mutant cross between a confirmation and a man staring down the train that will kill him as he stands on the tracks.

"[No.]" The guitar was laid aside but the Mariachi did not rise. "[Not yet.]"

Sands lolled to one side in the bed, feeling disjointed. The pills had given him a distinctly uncomfortable reminder in his belly that he hadn't eaten in a while. How long had it been? Those capsules must have done something, knocked him out cold so the doctors could sew him up again, He'd been out long enough for the Mariachi to take him out of Culiacan when no one was looking. He struggled to sit up, a wave of nausea sucking at him. There was a bitter scum of bile in the back of his throat. The awful taste reminded him of the grasshoppers he'd swallowed as a kid on a five-dollar dare.

"I could really go for Chinese right now," he managed weakly. "El, I'm starving here. Send out for some eggrolls and I'll read your fortune cookie for you." He laughed to himself, the breath wheezing in his bony chest.

"[Don't get up, I will bring you something.]" The Mariachi said, and he crossed the room.

"And a coke," said Sands. The Mariachi's answer was a snort, and the door closed and locked behind him. "Motherfucker."


	3. Chapter 3

=All I've done, I've done for me All you gave, you gave for free=

"[Eat this,]" The Mariachi said, putting the plate into Sand's outstretched hands. The English-Spanish joke continued. Sands was still pretending he didn't speak Spanish, and the Mariachi was bullheadedly continuing to avoid English. But there was an understanding now that this was the way things were going to be. At least, until Sands could manage to find something heavy enough to smack across the back of El's head and lay him out. He grinned to himself.

"I just had a fine thought," he said to the Mariachi, who he knew had returned with food of his own. "You take me someplace secluded and drop me off. Maybe give me a knife or something. Let me fend off the vultures until they get the better of me, then I'll be out of your hands and you won't even have to dispose of the body."

The Mariachi grunted with his mouth full of food, and Sands supposed it was amusement.

"Come on, you know those birds would pick my bones clean. You could take my hollow skull and use it for an ashtray."

"[I didn't drag you out of Culican to listen to your inane ramblings,]" El grumbled "[Now start eating or I'm going to have to force that down your throat.]"

Sands choked down most of his taco without breathing, he was that hungry. There was some sort of meat in the flour tortilla, and warm juices ran down his wrist. He swabbed his skin with his tongue when he was finished, absorbing the last licks of nutrition. He ignored the red-faced shame his brain was trying hard to impose. He knew he looked like a wild animal, reduced to gorging itself before anything bigger than him came to take the prize away. He ran his fingers across the rough-glazed plate and licked off the crumbs.

"Before you say anything, shut up," he snapped in the Mariachi's general direction. The answer was only a half-detected sigh of resignment. Sands bristled internally, wishing he could pinpoint the man's exact location so he could hurl the plate at his forehead. "This is harder than it looks, alright? I'd like to see you try this."

Look. See. Mentally, he made the decision to keep those words in the sentence. Not for pity's sake but for the same reason a veteran wears his medals. It's one big fuck-you to everyone. And goddammit, when he's better, he's going to get that twisted motherfucker by the throat and prove that having no eyes doesn't make you any less of a hunter or killer.

Think of those blind cave-fish, the ones whose ancestors' ancestors spent their lives in the black underground lakes. They have huge, hollow eye sockets. They can't tell when they're brought into the light; they have no optic nerves, no area of their tiny brains to tell them if it's bright or not. Or maybe they can see, and bringing them into the light blinds them forever.

It's twisted. The cyclical thoughts reeled through Sands' head as he slid the plate across his lap to the edge of the bed. Now he could tell the drug was morphine, god only knows where the Mariachi found it. Probably that shady doctor El said he'd found. He was probably one of those fly-by- night drug-dealer-to-the-rich-on-vacation. A doctor to prescribe those little pills when Missus can't sleep at night or Mister can't get it up. But in this place, it seemed pretty much anything was just as likely. It could have been PCP but it wasn't. Crack, but they were lucky. No, it was morphine.

"Where's my coke?" Sands griped, pushing sullenly at the heavy stoneware dish. Closer and closer to the edge it went. He wanted it to smash into a million pieces on the floor. Smash it, and then he'd dance on the shattered pottery until his feet bled in ribbons.

"[You don't want warm, flat coke,]" the Mariachi said and his spur clinked against the ground as he got up. "[I'll get you a cold one before we move on.]"

"More travelling? El, you bastard. I'm getting saddle sores already." Sands only talked to keep his mouth and ears full of words. He couldn't remember the road, or if he did it was a vague black memory, breathing dust from a car window or flat out, freezing cold, in the back of a rickety pickup truck. He wasn't even sure how many times they'd played out this scene. He didn't even know what day it was. "Goddamn it, if that's the way it is, turn me in and let me get to a real, honest-to-goodness hospital with pretty nurses and a meal plan. You watch, I'll get encephalitis or something awful from your shitbox of a country." Sands gave the plate one last, hard shove and waited for the crack of breaking clay. There was a warm, flat sound as the plate hit the Mariachi's palm, and he scooped it away and laid it on a table.

"[Can't you ever have anything nice?"] El sounded amused. Then there was the well-remembered rattle of a skeletal bottle of pills being drawn from his pocket. Sands shivered.

"No, I want to wreck things." He said darkly. "Why the hell else do you think I ended up down here? They couldn't keep me in the States for too long, it's too civilized. Even though really, under the surface, the U.S is as big a fuckup as I am."

"[Well, you're alive aren't you?]"

Sands laughed, the high bark sounding more like a scream. It sent chills up the Mariachi's spine. It was the sound of a man on the brink of madness, clawing his way out. Or in. Sands didn't know which way he was going, either.

Sands heard El shake the remaining capsules out into his palm. The bottle sounded almost empty. He must have paid that backalley doctor a small fortune for them, and by the sounds of things, now they were nearly gone. When they reached the end of the drugs, Sands would probably lose all his reason, if he'd even had any to begin with.

"[Are the pills working?]" El asked, counting out the remaining medicine back into the bottle. Tiny tic-tac sounds accompanied his words, a tiny rattle like a castanet. There was enough for maybe two night's worth of travelling, maybe less.

"Sure, I can almost feel my eyes growing back," Sands snickered. "No, goddammit, what are these things supposed to do aside from making me feel like a goofball?"

"[Well, everyone thinks you're my retarded cousin, and no one is asking questions. I think that's the point.]" the Mariachi capped the bottle and tucked it back into his pocket. "[The doctor said to keep the dosage high until the stitches take, and then we can worry about it.]"

"Shit," hissed Sands, "El, did anyone tell you that you're one sick fucker? Short of banging that stuff straight into my veins, you're doing an excellent job of turning me into a junkie."

The Mariachi frowned and said "[You don't really have much of a choice now, do you?]"

"Well, when you put it that way." Sands laid back against the hard pillows, splaying his wounded body out in the shape of a star. The effect was stunningly lascivious and equally disturbing. "Go ahead, bang away."

The Mariachi tore himself away from the bedside and crossed the creaky floorboards to the broken dresser. There was a leather satchel on top of the dresser that held the rest of their meagre medical supplies.

"[I can give you one more if you like]," he said shortly. "[Your dressings need changing. This isn't going to be pretty.]"

"Screw being pretty," Sands muttered.

El brought an armload of supplies back to the bed and slit the paper wrappings on the fresh packets of gauze. He fed Sands another capsule, and this time he swallowed it compliantly.

"You know these things are making me hallucinate?" Sands was loopy. He was still spreadeagled on the mattress. He was waving his good arm around, passing his hand in front of his bandaged face with a scowl of concentration. "Can you see this? I think I can see this, but it isn't mine."

"[You can't see that.]" El took his hand and pushed it up above his head. He took two loops of cord and tied Sands' wrists to the bedframe.

"Hey, hey, El, this is kinky," there wasn't even panic in his voice, only a weird echo of dreamy alarm. The Mariachi shook his head, and took the rest of his cord and tied Sands' ankles. "Tell me this is for a reason, or I'm going to shoot you."

"[Everything is for a reason,]" El grumbled, pulling the knots tight. "[You punched me the last time I tried this. I doubt you'd remember.]"

Sands opened and closed his right hand, wiggling the fingers, feeling bruised muscles sliding over bone. "Now you mention it, my hand is pretty sore. Did I break anything in your face?"

El said nothing, but opened the bottle of rubbing alcohol and doused his hands to disinfect them. Slowly, he cut away the outer layer of bandages, exposing most of Sands' face. Only the eye sockets were still white, filled in with pads of gauze.

"[Hold still,]" the Mariachi said, plucking at the edge of one eye.

Sands' body tensed like an electric current had run through it. He arched his spine and curled his hips off the bed, sucking air violently through his teeth. El extracted the bloody gauze and tossed it aside.

"Sweet Jesus, El, are you trying to murder me?"

"[One moment,]" El replied, and ran his little finger through the small pot of ointment the doctor had given him. He annointed the ragged remains of the mutilated eyelids and the red, oozing places where the eye muscles had been severed. And he did it, this time, without retching.

"This is really quite awful," Sands said through gritted teeth, "and goddammit, your hands are cold."

"[I am sorry,]" the Mariachi gently packed fresh gauze into the gaping hole. Sands whimpered, trying hard not to be heard. El ignored the noises, and pulled out the packed gauze from the other eye and began to repeat the routine.

"Struck dumb, are we, by my stunning beauty?" Sands murmured.

"[You look better today.]" El wound a fresh covering bandage around Sands' head.

"Well, that's just great, El, I feel like I could run a marathon!" Sands wriggled his hips and cracked an awful grin. "Come on, untie me, I gotta take a piss."

"[Of course,]" the Mariachi sighed, bending over his patient's bonds to untie them.

He turned to gather up the medical supplies, and Sands slithered off the narrow mattress and stood shakily, cocking his head and listening to the sounds of the room. His hand was on the rickety table for reference.

"Daytime?" Sands asked, sounding disinterested. The Mariachi grunted.

"[Sun's starting to go down,] he said, "[We're going to move on soon.]"

"That's what you think!" With three swift steps, aided by the sound of El's voice, Sands rushed up behind him with the heavy earthenware plate. He smacked it across the back of the Mariachi's head and it smashed. The Mariachi stumbled forward against the dresser, his knees giving out. Sands laughed his eerie, high-pitched squeal, and let him stumble to the floor.

"[Ah, Jesus Christ,]" the Mariachi groaned. Sands aimed a kick at him and connected with his ribs. The Mariachi grunted and twisted, grabbing at Sands' booted foot. The agent went down in an awkward tangle of limbs, giggling madly. There was a sickening thud as the back of his head hit the floor. The scuffle ended as abruptly as it had begun.


	4. Chapter 4

=I gave nothing in return, And there's little left of me=

Darkness. He was getting used to the crawling feeling up his spine, the remnants of his genetics trying to feel out the danger long after his sight had died. He had passed the point where it was all a big joke. Now it was just the best punchline he'd ever heard. It made him wake up screaming when he thought he was already awake. Yeah, now that was funny.

Sands jerked awake, sweaty and disoriented. He was on a wide bench seat in a moving vehicle, the Mariachi's guitar case riding shotgun beside him. There was an empty gas can banging around in the back. Goddamn pickup trucks. As this thought registered, another, more pressing realization came to him. He was about to throw up.

"Pull over, you vicious bastard," he screeched, clutching hard at the cracked vinyl seat. The vehicle slowed, tires crunching on the gravel shoulder as it pulled over. Sands spilled out into the scrub grass and retched horribly. He was dizzy, his head spinning. The ground was tilted at an impossible angle; no footing at all. He feared for a moment he would fall and never be able to get up again.

After his display of intestinal fortitude, Sands wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. His wounded arm and leg were screaming in pain, and his skull felt like it was about to split. He groaned softly.

The driver's side door opened and slammed shut, and booted footsteps came to him across the gravel. A strong hand was at his arm, helping him up.

"[We're nearly there,]" said the Mariachi. Too weak to shove him away, Sands let the man lead him back to the truck. He leaned against the side of it, catching his breath. "[You can ride in the back if you need to lay down.]"

Sands paused, his instinct wanting to haul off, sock El in the face and be done with it. Then he let his shoulders slump in exhaustion. El knew where they were headed, and he did not.

"Drive," he said resignedly, and for once, he was glad the Mariachi didn't answer him.

Everything was too loud; the cool night air whistling past his ears, the squeaking of the rusting suspension, the muffled thuds of the weaponry bouncing around in the guitar case at his elbow. He found he couldn't focus, couldn't ground himself. His hand gripped the door handle too hard, leaving welts in his skin.

After what seemed an interminable expanse of boulders, sharp corners and deep, rutted potholes, El slowed down and finally pulled to a stop. Sands slumped against the door, thankful his world had stopped shaking. He heard El get out and whistle sharply through his teeth. From somewhere out in the blackness there was an answering whistle, and El moved away toward the sound.

Sands let the doorlatch go as quietly as he could, and slipped out of the truck, lugging the guitar case after him. Far away on the other side of the truck, he heard El talking to someone. Someone who wasn't speaking goddamn spanish for a change.

"You'll have to come closer, the moon isn't full yet." This was the man El had driven god-knows-how-long to meet? He could have been a drug dealer or a cartel hitman for all he knew. The accent was flat, almost American. Cold. Scary. Familiar.

"No," said El. Sands froze in disbelief. Of course the bastard could speak English. But why now? What the fuck did he think he was doing? "This is far enough."

"There were men looking for you," said the man. He sounded like an eel, all slime and sharp teeth. Sands got a mental picture of the man that wouldn't let go. He shivered and popped the latches on the case. To his ears, each snap sounded like a gunshot. He froze, his nerves tingling.

"There are always men looking for me." The Mariachi's voice sounded different, strained and tense. Maybe he was just tired, but Sands didn't think so. He reached under the false guitar top and found the automatics in their holsters. The leather belt felt like a coiled snake under his fingertips. These were his guns!

He had done it once, he could do it again. Sands whipped the belt around his hips. The wound in his arm stretched and complained, but he ignored it. There were more important things at stake.

"Did you bring the CIA man with you?" asked the Eel. He was starting to lose patience. Sands heard El take one step backwards, his boots clattering on the loose rocks.

"You are not Estobàn," he heard El say, and there was the unmistakeable sound of a pistol being cocked. Ah, shit.

The Eel gave a low, cruel chuckle and advanced on the Mariachi. "Hands up where I can see them. Wondering where your friend is? I shot him about half an hour ago when I saw your headlights. And he was so looking forward to seeing you."

Sands needed cover. He crawled on hands and knees alongside the gravel track of the road. There must be something out here he could hide behind. He was pretty sure it was dark outside, which was why The Eel had wanted El to come closer. Either that or he made a better target that way. Probably both, he decided.

"Are you going to shoot me, too?" The Mariachi's 'y' was a 'j.' Sands grinned, imagining the man at gunpoint, his hands above his head. Oh yeah. This was going to hurt.

He moved off perdendicular to the pickup, hoping to god El had shut off the headlights, hoping to god he was still wearing his black shirt and trousers. Was he? The shirt had a missing snap on one cuff, a tattered bullethole in the sleeve, a flaking mask of blood droplets across his chest. Shit, what if he was making a complete ass of himself?

There, a hollow behind a pile of rocks, something spiny that seemed to be a bush. And something soft that was definitely not a rock or a bush. He felt hard denim and cotton under his touch. Something wet and cooling on his fingers. He smelled blood and piss. Great, he was sharing a foxhole with an incontinent dead idiot. Sands cursed under his breath and wiped his fingers on the dead man's shirt.

"I'll shoot you the second I see something I don't like," the Eel yelled, "Stay where you are, don't touch anything!!"

So El had gotten as far the the pickup truck, now. And Sands had a good idea where the Eel was standing. He drew his gun. Imagine the target. Really, this was just as easy as night-time target practice. Don't forget to breathe. It was all just a game. He listened to the rocks and the crunching footsteps. At least he knew El was the one wearing chains.

The first shot kicked up a rock that smacked across The Eel's shins, and he cursed and spat. He shot once toward the truck and jumped backwards, thinking there was someone still in the cab. Sands heard the Mariachi drop to the ground and crawl under the truck. He squeezed off another shot at the centre of the cursing. No rocks this time. Had he hit something?

"[Jesus, what are you trying to do!]" The Mariachi was yelling, "[You're going to kill me!]"

"You son of a two-dollar whore!" The Eel was screaming shrilly. That was what Sands wanted to hear. He let off another shot, the recoil sending shockwaves through his aching skull. The Eel squawked and there was the sound of a body hitting the stony ground. Then, suddenly, the night was very still.

"Uh." Sands tested, "El?"

"[Son of a bitch,]"said the Mariachi softly, still under the pickup. "[You can come out now.]"

"Did I kill him?" Sands asked, resting his head on the smooth stone in front of him. He was so tired.

"[I think,]" the Mariachi extricated himself from the truck's suspension and snapped the guitar case shut. Sands heard him shuffling over to where The Eel had fallen. He was limping heavily. "[Yes, he's dead.]"

"Where to now, then?" Sands managed to stand up and started moving towards where he'd left the aresenal. A few feet away, his foot nudged the guitar case. It was reassuring. He made it back to the truck, hands pressed flat against the passenger door. It was like returning to a lifeboat. The dirty scent of gasoline and dust filled his nostrils. "So can we can get the hell out of here, now, right?" He called, trying to keep the keening whine of panic from his voice. "Just get me back to some place where there are cities, walls, sidewalks, anything! This wilderness is fucking freaking me out, okay?"

"[This isn't the man who was supposed to meet us here.]" Sands heard the Mariachi roll The Eel over, and rifle his pockets.

"Yeah, he shot your buddy, okay, who is behind that rock over there, by the way. He pissed his pants and his brains are all over his shirt. Unless you want to end up the same way, get me the FUCK out of here!" He punctuated his exclamation with a swift kick to the tail end of the pickup.

"[Take it easy.]" The Mariachi went behind the low pile of rocks and scrub, and Sands heard him swearing softly.

Sands crawled into the front seat of the pickup, every inch of his body cold and tired. Maybe it was the nerves. He was sure his hands were shaking but he was glad he couldn't look. He shivered. "Are you done yet?"

El came back to the truck with something heavy, and the chime of a keyring in his hand. He paused at the headlights and pulled two keys off the ring and tossed the rest back onto the chest of The Eel. The heavy thing he had been carying was a briefcase, which he dropped onto the floor under Sands' feet. He slammed the passenger door and tossed the guitar case into the back.

"[We're going,]" he said firmly. "[Now.]"

"It's about fucking time."


	5. Chapter 5

=In red-eyed pain I'm knocking on your door again My crazy brain in tangles, pleading for your gentle voice Those storms keep pounding through my head and heart=

Then Sands wasn't sure of the order of things. At that point the Mariachi may have fed him a couple more pills, which seemed to calm his nervous shaking. They drove in silence for an hour or so, until the roads were better. After a while he was certain the sun had come up; he started to feel warmth on his hands and face. Then, eventually there were the sounds of other cars and the natural background hum of a town. And then they stopped.

The Mariachi took the case from the floor, and rifled through its contents. Sands could swear he smelled money. Not only money, but he smelled blood as well. The Mariachi pressed packets of bills into his hands.

"You're bleeding. Is this blood money?" Sands cracked. His smile felt tight and bruised across a face unused to the expression.

"[Not funny.]" He knew there was a deep, dark scowl on the Mariachi's face. "[Get out.]"

Sands shivered uncontrollably in his seat. He heard the Mariachi get out of the truck, leaning on the hood as he came around to the passenger door. When he yanked open the door, Sands nearly fell into his lap.

"[Don't forget. Money for the doctor.]" El leaned heavily on his shoulder, pressing hard on the old bullet wound. Sands held him up, miraculously. Maybe it was a miracle, an act of god. Who knew. They stumbled in together, a weird wounded creature with crippled limbs, a disfigured face. Monstrous.

"We can't just wander into a hospital like this!" Sands complained, "They'll shoot us in two seconds."

"[Hospital? Hah!]" El chuckled but his humour was almost gone. "[What can a hospital do for you when a man can do it cleaner, faster and never tell a soul? There are always open doors for outlaws and men who pay with American dollars.]"

"You're hurting," Sands whined. El pushed through the heavy wooden door. Inside, it was cool and quiet, smelling of hospital disinfectant, vinegar and laundry soap.

"[Doctor!]" the Mariachi yelled hoarsely, barely able to hold himself up. Sands was slipping in El's blood, his feet skidding across the slick linoleum.

"Madre de Dios!"

A door slammed, and suddenly there were hands at his elbow; soft, nervous hands that definitely did not belong to El. There was a spout of rapid- fire unintelligible Spanish, and the panicked squeak of rubber-soled shoes. The Mariachi's blood was everywhere. Sands shuffled backwards until he had the wall behind him. He sniffed at his fingers.

"[What happened to your friend?]" The Doctor said, sounding half shell- shocked. Well, at least Sands knew he could still make an impression on people.

"[Oh, he always looks like that,]" the Mariachi tried to joke, but the Doctor wouldn't have it.

"[Are you alright?]" Then the Doctor's moist little hands were on his face, pulling at the sunglassses, poking and prodding. Sands batted the fluttering fingers away from his face with a snarl.

"I fell," Sands tried to say, but the floor was spinning wildly. Somehow, the wall tilted and he slid down to his knees. "And I'm not your friend -"

Sands passed out.


	6. Chapter 6

=I pray you'll soothe my sorry soul=

Heroics. It hadn't been Sands' strong suit during his training. The Company didn't pay its agents to take chances. The only things it wanted were cold, hard facts. Regime change? No problem, it was a chess game. Check, Mate. Bang, you're dead.

Except he wasn't dead. He'd orchestrated possibly the bloodiest coup of the decade by pitting each dangerous foe against another, never dreaming that somewhere there was a blast just waiting to go up in his face. He hadn't seen it coming. He'd been blindsided.

Sands giggled to no one in particular. His voice bounced around the sharp edges of the room. Plaster walls. Tiled floor. Something metal somewhere at his elbow. He heard a soft groan nearby and knew it was El, probably on another flat, not-quite-soft industrial mattress like his own.

"[What?]"

"Funny thing," Sands said dreamily, "You tried to sell me off, didn't you?"

"[And you find that funny?]"

"Hey, humour a blind man, okay? Sands raised a hand to his face and felt more bandages. Clean ones this time. Maybe things were looking up. "Don't you think I have a reason to laugh? I fucking got my eyes gouged out, alright?"

"[Yes,]" El said softly, "[I saw them.]"

"Well, Jesus! What more do you want from me?" Sands sighed, completely exasperated. "How much did they offer you? What did they want me for? Chain me up and screw my empty skull until I die? Pull out my toenails? Come on, honestly."

The Mariachi was absolutely, dammnably quiet then. After a few minutes Sands heard him shifting on the bed, the flat wire springs creaking as he sat up. There was a whisper of bare feet against the linoleum floor tiles.

"[You tried to have me killed,]" he said sourly. "[That's not something that would gain my trust.]"

"Fine, then." Sands shrugged, "I guess you're ditching me now then? Let my own government hunt me down and toss me into a court-martial, then. Let the civil servants skullfuck me to death instead."

The Mariachi hefted the briefcase onto his cot and began digging through its contents. Sands heard the tempting rustle of the packets of bills. He put his hand out to the bedframe for reference, some indication that when he moved the rest of the world stood still. His hand touched his gunbelt, looped over the bedframe. Slowly, he propped himself up and pulled a gun from its holster. He held it along his side, away from El.

"[Here,]" the Mariachi said sharply, "[This is your half.]" He dropped a fat pile of bills onto the sheets beside Sands.

"Now hold on just a fucking moment, alright?" Sands had the automatic aimed in a split second. He heard the Mariachi take a breath and freeze. "I've been dragged through enough honey and bullshit in the last few days to feed the flies for twenty years. We've got to settle up, now, otherwise I'll shoot you, and you can use the rest of that money for a big fat funeral. Now. What day is it?"

"[Saturday.]" Nothing more, nothing less. Sands jerked the end of the gun at his hostage, doing mental math. He'd been with this lunatic for a week. A week of morphine and tacos and fucking pickup trucks and bad roads and bandages.

"And, well, pardon me for asking but this is payoff money, isn't it?" He waved a handful of bills wildly, trying to keep from screaming. "You and your goddamn secret missions, you were going to hand me over to a bounty hunter last night! Don't think I didn't see that coming." He paused, snickered. See. "Hah, it's all fucking funny isn't it?"

"[This money was from Estobàn. He wasn't a bounty hunter.]" El sulked. Well, that was extremely becoming of him. Bravery in the face of adversity and all that jazz. "[He used to be cartel. He was trying to get back in good standing, get back into running cocaine. He offered me ten thousand dollars if I brought you to him alive.]"

"Estobàn wasn't the guy I shot last night, El!" Sands sneered and slid out of his bed, planting the gun barrel straight into the Mariachi's throat. The bills in Sands' lap spilled over the floor with the hiss of a waterfall. "The man I shot was an American asshole bounty hunter called Cameron. He was a fucking parasite. He's been freeloading in Mexico for years, you know, pretending to be a reporter from the National Geographic, faking arms deals and turning in the buyers, that sort of shit. Man after my own heart."

"[Then he killed Estobàn,]" the Mariachi said lowly. Sands jabbed at him with the gun. Damn him, the Mariachi didn't yelp or anything, even pinned to a hospital mattress by a homicidal maniac with a gun. "[And he was going to take us both in, probably, if you hadn't killed him. I'm guesing he wasn't going to take us alive.]"

"Alive is sort of a relative term, isn't it?" Sands said sourly. The whole thing was leaving a stupid, bitter fog in his head. He wanted to bang his head against a wall to clear it out. "What was your deal with the cartel?"

"[He promised no-one would come after me again.]" Sands felt the Mariachi shrug beneath him. "[I can't hide forever.]"

"Asshole!" Sands ground the muzzle of the gun hard up under the Mariachi's jaw. His bony knee was planted on El's chest. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just shoot you right now!"

"[Well,]" and Sands could almost hear his evil grin, "[You would have done the same.]"

Sands sighed and his gun wavered away from El's neck. The Mariachi carefully pushed it away, his hand damp with nervous perspiration. The weapon dropped to the bed.

"Fuck you," Sands groaned, rolling off his target and slumping to his knees beside the bed. He rested his bandaged head against the edge of the mattress.

The Mariachi stood up and Sands heard him snap the locks shut on the briefcase. He pulled on his boots and flung his jacket over one arm. He limped towards the door.

"So this is goodbye, is it?" Sand muttered. The Mariachi paused, half- turned on his bad leg and made a noise like he was going to say something. But he must have bitten his lip because Sands didn't hear him say a word. He listened to El's uneven footsteps move out, down the hallway, until they were gone.

Sands was alone.

Well, he never let that stop him before. His wounded leg was stiff and screaming, the muscles locked in a cramp around the freshly-placed stitches. He holstered his gun, and dropped one hand to the floor, fingers outstretched, feeling for the loose bills that had fallen. His other hand had a death grip on the stiff sheets of the Mariachi's cot. He cracked his fingers open and went to hands and knees, pushing all the little scraps of paper into a pile on the waxed floor.

Then footsteps came to the door, the hesitant, crepe-soled little steps of the Doctor. Sands kept right on shovelling.

"Señor?" The Doctor was perplexed. "Your amigo? He is gone?"

"Yeah," grunted Sands, groping around the legs of the cot. He was sure more of the bills had fallen under the bed. "That brutal son of a bitch."

"You know where he has gone?" The Doctor tried to take his arm to help him up, but Sands shook him off with a snarl.

"Do I look like I fucking know?" Sands turned on him, grabbed the lapels of his little hobby-doctor lab coat and shook him until his teeth rattled. "I'm blind! I don't know what the fuck city I'm even in! How the hell would I know where he's gone!"

"C-C-Castillo," stammered the Doctor, his pasty hands on Sands' wrists. The touch of his fingers was like a mortician.

"Christ!" Sands shoved the Doctor away and scooped up his money. "Just stay the fuck away from me, okay? Away!" He staggered against the bed, barking his shins against the rail. "Fuck!" He groped around and stripped the pillowcase from his pillow and stuffed the crumped bills into it.

"Señor, you are in no shape to leave," the Doctor said nervously, "your eyes, you will need a specialist. A week! You need your medication."

Sands drew his gun slowly, lovingly, drawing the moment out to let the Doctor see it; a terrible avenging angel shrouded in black, the bandages tight white across his blinded face. His aim was unerring. The nose of the gun touched against the Doctor's sweating forehead.

"Bang." Sands laughed as the Doctor flinched, the tremor telegraphing up his body, through the barrel of the gun. "It's so easy."

"Don't kill me!"

"No, what do I need?" Sands asked conversationally, almost pleasantly, as if there was no bullet ready to blast into the Doctor's face.

"On the table," the Doctor flapped his arms around, pointing to the table Sands couldn't see. He realized the error and corrected it. "Beside the bed. Two bottles. Big one is painkillers. The small one antibiotics. You have to take them all until they are gone, or your eyes, they will be infected."

"No problem." Sands groped around on the table and located the bottles. He cocked his head as he shook them, a slight smile at the corner of his mouth. "Anything else?"

"Serious injuries, you'll have problems. Have to see a specialist in Acapulco who does reconstruction." He wasn't really listening to the Doctor as the man babbled, he was concentrating more on staying upright, staying focused. He took the man's collar in a tight grip, turned him, placed the barrel of the gun at the base of his skull. He forced the Doctor to lead him to the door. "Don't go to anyone except him! He knows me."

"Shut up." Sands snapped. He listened carefully, and heard distant traffic, the sounds of children laughing. He put his hand on the thick door and pushed. "Okay, well, it's been swell. See you 'round."

The Doctor sputtered and stammered, but Sands was out the door and left him there.

The sun was hot overhead. There were pockets of shade that were marginally cooler, between the buildings or under awnings. He kept a wall at his right shoulder, left hand tight on the pillowcase, right hand at hip level, outstretched. Christ. Whatever in the hell had made him think he could do this?

Just take it a step at a time. Sands moved along the rough bricks until they stopped and turned a corner. He took four steps out into the middle of nothing, a dark void full of unfamiliar sounds. Nothing to hold onto, nothing to touch. He was doing well.

Five steps, and he stumbled against a rock, or a curb, or a sleeping dog, and fell hard. The impact knocked the breath out of him and sent him sprawling into a faceful of Mexican dust. It was a dirt track, rutted by tires, with the unhealthy grumbling of an engine rattling his way. Sands wheezed and choked, grabbed the money, and tried to heave himself up but his bad leg wouldn't take it. The driver honked at him, and bald tires chomped at the gravel. Sands bit his lip and figured that was it.

Shit.

Maybe he'd be lucky and the front right tire would run directly over his skull, crushing what was left of his head into a bloody pulp. Then he wouldn't have to worry about the Doctor's antibiotics, painkillers or any kind of goddamn specialist. Or perhaps it would crush his ribs and send splinters of bone shooting through his lungs into his spine. Better yet, maybe through his heart. If he still had one.

The truck stopped.

He shakily reached out a hand and found the rusty bumper. He hooked his fingers through the ragged holes and pulled himself up. The hood was burning hot under his palms. The driver cut the engine and he tensed, expecting some hideous barrage of abusive Spanish.

"[Going somewhere?]" The Mariachi asked lazily, probably grinning like a fool. Sands spat out his mouthful of sand and blood, and wiped his mouth with the back of one hand.

"I hear Acapulco's nice this time of year." Sands shuffled around the hood of the truck to the passenger door and leaned in the window. "Get a tan, catch up on my drinking. Maybe find some girls who can do shiatsu or something."

The Mariachi snorted. "[Tourist trap.]"

"It'd sure be the last place on earth I'd look for me." Sands shrugged. "If was looking. If I still could."

"[Hm.]" The Maraichi coaxed the engine back into life with a few stomps on the gas pedal. The exhaust rattled. "[If you're coming, get in.]"

Sands yanked the door open and clambered into the front seat. He bumped against the Mariachi's guitar case and grinned. "You sure we have enough ammo to get to Acapulco?"

He could sense El's shrug, but heard the reflected grin in his voice. "What's this "we" business?"

"So you do speak English." Sands leaned back with a sense of perverse satisfaction. El grunted and slapped the truck into gear, bouncing jerkily over the ruts in the road. "I was beginning to think you were just doing that to drive me crazy."

"You weren't before?"

"Vicious bastard." Sands gave the guitar case a shove and he heard the Mariachi yelp as the corner dug into his wounded leg. Sands giggled maliciously. "Gee, do you need any help driving, with that leg and all?"

There was a moment where Sands registered that the Mariachi could probably just punch him in the face and break his nose, dump him on the side of the road and be done with him. A tense few seconds passed. And then El just laughed.

"You might need these," he said, putting something into Sands' hand. He felt smooth, shiny plastic. "The sun's pretty bright."

"Oh fuck you." Sands fitted the glasses over his face, careful not to disturb the bandages over the bridge of his nose. "When did you grow a sense of humour?"

"It's a common mistake," El sighed. The truck bounced through a few ill- spaced potholes and swerved around a corner. "I am just a simple musician."

Sands shook his head, smiling bemusedly to himself. He sat back and let the warm breeze from the window ruffle his hair and dry the sweat from his throat. The truck's engine strained and slipped into high gear. After a while, the Mariachi began to sing softly and for the first time in a week, Sands actually slipped off to sleep.

=All the days of my life All the days I owe you.=

END.


End file.
